


[-] heard a Fly buzz -- when [-] died --

by listlessness



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Body Horror, F/F, Gen, Insects, Monster horror, Pre-Relationship, Spiders, victorian gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listlessness/pseuds/listlessness
Summary: There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.An employment opportunity opens up at an old, decrepit house on Paternoster Row. Short of options and even shorter on time, Jenny takes it up. The monster within always reveals itself too late.
Relationships: Jenny Flint/Madame Vastra
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18
Collections: Multifandom Horror Exchange (2020)





	[-] heard a Fly buzz -- when [-] died --

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvilToTheCore13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilToTheCore13/gifts).



> Written for [EvilToTheCore13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilToTheCore13/pseuds/EvilToTheCore13) as part of the Multifandom Horror Exchange. I had a great deal of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I tried to stick to the canonical backstory of Jenny and Vastra's first meeting, but I did alter a few details in order to fit the narrative. Think of this as a Victorian gothic horror take on it instead. 
> 
> Content warning: there are a _lot_ of spiders and insects within the fic.
> 
> [Thank you, Emily Dickinson.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45703/i-heard-a-fly-buzz-when-i-died-591)

Rumours tended to spread like wildfire through the London working class. No matter what Jenny did, where she went or who she worked for, the rumours would inevitably catch up to her. It didn't matter how false they were, and nothing but her family trying to equally save face and bring her back to them. In lieu of them admitting that their youngest daughter had slipped away in the dead of night due to their constant criticism of her predilections, they poisoned her name with accusations. Theft, robbery, stealing. Petty little things of no consequence to most, but somehow managed to catch up to her, no matter where she went. 

Working as a maid may not have been the dream of many young women her age, but for Jenny it was a dream beyond her previous reality. It involved a bed, as thin as the mattress may be, and a roof above her head to escape the cold. Lye might burn her knuckles and the rest of the household staff stern, but it was also a chance to try and make something of herself. 

Being a maid to a household also meant the rumours that existed on the street about her supposed habitual sticky fingers also took longer to catch up. Shopkeepers and tailors didn't want a supposed thief on their payroll and were to quick to turn her away, but households were potentially less likely to hear the stories about her. 

Immediately, at least. 

The households found out. One by one, the rumours, spirited on by bored milkmaids and washerwomen, would find their way to the household at which Jenny had found employment. And, one by one, they would turn her back out onto the street. 

The most reputable of households would no longer hire her. Those a step down also closed their doors on her. The most unsavoury of households were either not hiring new staff or Jenny, fearful of her own safety (because no coin was worth her own life), refused to so much as step up onto their stoop. 

Bar one. 

The house on Paternoster Row had fallen into mild disrepair by the time Jenny heard of a new opening in its kitchen staff. Some of the window shutters had been nailed shut, and a number of wooden slats lay cracked and broken near the steps that led up to the front door. Several plants that lined the footpath outside the building had been trampled on or dug up. Jenny nudged one of them with the toe of her boot and found the soil wet. At least they were being watered. 

Jenny had become familiar with the routine of applying for a new position in a household and the hoops through which she would have to dance. She had expected this time to be no different. She was, however, quite wrong. 

For one, nobody came to the door when she knocked. After testing the handle, she felt the heavy oak door creak open, revealing a dimly lit entrance way. After a beat of hesitation, she stepped inside, pushing the door open with two fingers, and called out. Her voice echoed down the corridor. 

A head appeared from around a doorway. 

'Hullo?' Jenny called, feeling a little guilty, as though she were responsible for the door opening of its own accord. 

There was a pause, and, confused, Jenny entered the house. The head had disappeared. 

'Hullo?' she called out again, louder than before. 'I'm here for the kitchen- ' 

From the room where the room appeared came a slam. With barely any warning, a woman appeared, wearing the black dress and white apron that Jenny knew well. She ran down the corridor, a hand clasped over her mouth and another hitching her skirt up. The apron itself was riddled with stains, though Jenny couldn't make them out. 

She rushed past Jenny with scarcely a look. Having only just barely stepped out of the way, Jenny leant against the wall and listened as her footsteps hit the cobblestones and off onto the street. 

'Ah. Yes, hello. So sorry for that display.' 

At the sound of another voice, Jenny swivelled about. From the same room that the girl had run out from emerged another woman. She was older, with her far more elaborate uniform indicating a higher rank. The lead housekeeper, perhaps. 

'Is she alright?' Jenny asked, glancing back over at her shoulder. 

'Never mind her. Shut the door, will you? Madame doesn't like letting a draft in. Then come; I suppose you're the new kitchen maid? There's no time to waste.' 

Jenny, barely having had an opportunity to even reach the door, fumbled but nodded. She wasn't about to question or doubt a job she hadn't even hired for. 

* 

It didn't take Jenny long to realise why she had been hired with barely a glance at her credentials or a query as to her references. The house upon Paternoster Row was tremendously understaffed. She saw neither butler nor valet. The widowed Mrs Beryl, the woman who had met Jenny upon her arrival, played both housekeeper and lady's maid to Madame Musca. There was one solitary cook, who Jenny worked under, and, allegedly, two other maids who take care of the house and any other duties that Mrs Beryl was unable to tend to. 

Jenny never saw these maids, though sometimes she saw shadows creeping under doors and footsteps on the floor above. Paternoster Row was a tall building, with multiple floors, and though Jenny had been apparently on all of them, there still seemed to be one she couldn't find the stairs or door leading to. 

Mrs Beryl told her that those were Madame's quarters, and that the unseen maids tended to her predominately there. Although logically Jenny knew that didn't make any sense, she didn't dare question it. She needed this job. If she lost it, she may very well need to set sail for the colonies or, more worryingly, France. 

Although Jenny had been used to her sleeping quarters being close to the kitchen (whether due to a limitation in the available options or because the rumours had begun to catch up to her and rendered her fellow employees being suspicious of her), she had, apparently, rather free choice in this house. When Mrs Beryl failed to show her around after greeting her, Jenny asked the cook where she'd be lodging, and in response she received vague instructions and a gesture to the upstairs servant quarters. 

Rather than look a gift horse in the mouth, Jenny took to it quickly. A bed, with a mattress a good two inches thicker than any she'd slept upon before. A wardrobe with enough space to hang a winter coat, a window that looked out over the garden (which didn't open, but Jenny told herself it wouldn't let in a chill), and a small dresser for her to store her books. 

Such lodgings were unheard of for a woman of Jenny's rank. Logically she knew there would be a hook. Yet, after night after night in crowded dorms and housing for impoverished women (if she were able to acquire overnight lodging at all), she wasn't about to question it much like she hadn't with the immediate availability of the position. 

After the first night, any doubts she had about her newest job were forcefully pushed from her head. She had a pillow on which to rest, a promise of five shillings at the end of the week. She couldn't ask for any more. 

* 

It didn't take long for Jenny to find her duties expanded beyond the kitchen. She was accustomed to being sent out to purchase items from the market, or, occasionally, to run the odd cup or plate upstairs that had been left behind. But meals had to be prepared, pots had to be scrubbed and the floor mopped; rarely did Jenny do anything that wasn't tangentially related to the kitchen. 

That wasn't the case on Paternoster Row. 

Madame Musca seemed to prefer a diet that required minimal preparation beyond what Jenny was tasked with making. She allegedly had guests, but their arrival was never announced. There was a layer of dust gathering upon a staggering amount of crockery that was stored in the kitchen. Cooky (as she had dubbed the cook, a not uncommon nickname amongst women of her position) didn't require her at all hours and as such was frequently tossed from the kitchen. 

The longer Jenny remained employed at Paternoster Row, the more she began to notice just how much dust there was in in the house. When her duties in the kitchen ran scant, she was sent up to the upstairs with a mop in one hand and a feather duster in the other and sent to task cleaning. She'd argued, in the roundabout way that lower staff learnt to do, about how she was unfit to be seen, but her concerns were quickly dismissed. 

Not only did Madame Musca rarely have guests over, but she also apparently rarely left her own private chambers. If Mrs Beryl didn't bring her her meals, then Cooky placed them in the dumbwaiter and cranked it up, the chains grinding as the plain oatmeal or lukewarm tea was dragged upstairs. 

The thick layer of dust that littered the crockery had also spread throughout the house. The only room that seemed to have been cleaned with any regularity was the one Jenny had first met with Mrs Beryl. 

The _chaise-longues_ were covered in protective sheets, and the titles that lined the spines of books that rested in shelves were almost impossible to read from the layer of dust. The glass door of the grandfather clock was streaked with grime. Inside was a large ceremonial sword, sticky with spider webs, which she took care to clean as she avoided the swinging pendulums. Jenny plucked a number of spiders from the webs that littered the inner chamber's corners and crevices, trapping them in glass jars to release them outside. 

She had yet to see a gardener on the property, though the ground was often damp and the occasional footprint in the soil suggested someone had been there overnight. The ground was occasionally freshly turned, too, though Jenny couldn't figure out what fertiliser was being used. She had pushed her hand to the ground on one instance and it had come up grey and black and red. 

As confused as she was, she pushed it from her head. Gardening had never been her strong suit. 

* 

There were voices at night. 

Initially, Jenny had thought they were from the other staff, particularly those that she had yet to lay eyes open. There were vents in her room, low and by the floor, and as Jenny lay in bed attempting to read by the dying glow of her candle, she heard words coming up through them. Half-whispered, only fragments of words. 

Slipping out of bed, Jenny padded towards the closest vent. Lowering onto all fours, her creamy nightgown spilling out around her, she pressed her ear to the floor. 

She had yet to meet Madame Musca, but as she strained to hear what was being said, she was certain one of the women speaking was her. Her voice was rough and guttural, and only a handful of words could be picked out. 

'More.' 

She was in conversation with someone who sounded like Mrs Beryl. She spoke louder and clearer, though Jenny could still only pick out pieces. 

'I'm afraid that's not possible, ma'am.' 

'The new girl, then.' 

'We need more staff.' 

'Then hire another.' 

'People are beginning to question- ' 

High up above, there were footsteps on her ceiling. She had come to expect it at this time of evening; without fail, there would be footsteps crossing from the north-west down to the south-east stairwell. Although she had tried to find a door to reveal the passage taken, Jenny had yet to find any exit. While she had served under a deal of mistresses that had kept to themselves, she had begun to take Madame Musca for a recluse like none other she had yet to encounter. 

Jenny turned slowly. 

It was heavy, like boots. A thump sounded and dust began to rain down upon her, flecks of ash and soil and something that tasted of copper staining her nightgown and skin in equal level. She swiped her hand over her face to clear her eyes. It came back grey and black and red. 

If Madame Musca were downstairs, then that meant whoever who crossed her roof in the middle of the night was not her employer. 

Pushing herself up onto her feet, Jenny wiped her hands upon her nightgown. 

She had, for the time being, a bed in which to sleep, lunch and dinner, and coins in her purse. Despite that, a voice in her head was telling her to run away. 

Jenny had never been very good at listening to that voice. 

* 

Cooky had left to work for another family. That was what Mrs Beryl told Jenny after she'd gone to look for her after the cook had failed to appear for breakfast duties. Although she knew how to cook something as mundane as oats or porridge, Jenny had been hesitant to do so in case the cook came blustering in and boxed her ears for taking it upon herself to perform duties outside of her station. 

'Has another been hired?' Jenny asked, her mind clicking away this new piece of information. 

'Not at present.' 

The reply was short and bordered on curt. Baffled and reeling, Jenny's mind turned back to the conversation she had overheard some nights ago. Madame Musca had insisted to someone (not Mrs Beryl, that was for certain, which Jenny now realised as she compared the voices in her mind) that they hire someone else. If they had been short staffed, then surely the cook wouldn't have left her post. 

Scratching the back of her head as she attempted to digest the news, Jenny looked about the drawing room they were standing in. More dust had settled upon the settee overnight. It accumulated impossibly fast in the house. Despite there being a pair of other maids apparently employed, she had yet to so much as see their shadow. With the rate at which dirt and grime built up, she wasn't at all sure how she'd able to balance her standard kitchen duties, the additional cleaning she had taken on top, plus any chance of preparing meals for Madame Musca. 

'Am I to cook?' she asked cautiously. 

'You'll retain your standard duties unless otherwise directed.' 

'Will you be cook- ' 

'It will be taken care of, Miss Scarrity,' Mrs Beryl interrupted, her voice firm. 'You may continue on with your morning chores now.' 

Mouth agape, Jenny eyeballed the housekeeper, before nodding curtly and leaving to begin her morning cleaning rounds. With no cook in the kitchen, she had nothing to prepare and no guidance on which meal to begin work on. With any luck, it would grant her the opportunity to meet with the other maids. 

* 

More spiders had taken up refuge in the grandfather clock. Jenny, unafraid but mildly annoyed, scooped them up and carefully carried them out the front in a large jar and a dust-covered book placed atop to prevent them escaping. It had become a near-weekly occurrence. There was no noticeable nest that Jenny could find within the clock itself, though she hadn't dared search the chamber all that thoroughly. 

One morning, however, she could have sworn she had seen a fingerprint within the glass. Dust clung to the front of it, that tell-tale sign of grey and black and red she had begun to notice everywhere. She studied the smudge in the glass in the hazy daylight that shone through the window, angling the door open and closed to try to make out the smear. She could have very well left it there herself, but that seemed unlikely. 

As she crouched on the pavement out the front of the building, trying to shake the last spider from the jar, she heard footsteps behind her. The footsteps on her ceiling had kept her awake throughout the night, and a night of tossing and turning had left her with a stomach ache and a tightness in her chest. The smallest sound had her on alert and searching for the source. 

'Hello?' 

Spinning around, the word barely leaving her mouth, Jenny found herself rising to her feet to greet a woman. Her dress was drab and made of worn cloth, her hair streaked with a telltale grey that suggested a brood of children at home. Her face was familiar, though Jenny didn't immediately place where. 

'Good morning,' Jenny said with a mild unease. 'May I help?' 

'I'm looking for my sister, Eleanora. I'm Bessie. She must have mentioned me.' 

_Cooky_. 

Her eyes, a dark brown and close together, were not unlike the cook's, as was her short, flat nose. Jenny watched as the woman before her clutched at a small purse. 

She had been told Cooky had gone to stay with her family. The story hadn't been elaborated on from that. There had never been mention of a sister but, truthfully, there had been little chatter between the two of them. There had neither been mention of a husband or children. 

'She's not here,' Jenny said with a level of caution. 

'Will she be back later?' 

'Possibly. I didn't ask.' 

'May I stay and wait?' 

Sliding her eyes to the front door, which was partially ajar though a single gust of wind would cause it to blow shut, Jenny pressed her fingers into the empty jar. One of her heels was still embedded in the moist soil and she could feel it sinking, deep and heavy into the thick, crimson-stained dirt. 

'I don't believe you would be permitted, Miss.' 

She went to leave when the woman stopped her, not with actions but words. 

'You're Jenny Scarrity, aren't you?' 

'Excuse me?' 

Reeling around, Jenny turned to look at her. 

'I asked in the marketplace,' Bessie continued. One finger was working the leather cording of the purse. 'Everyone knew Ella. She weren't the most popular, but people knew her face. They said you'd taken up a position here. I thought you two...' 

Jenny waited silently, watching as the woman before her gave a nervous little hiccup. 

'She was like you, you see.' 

'How's that?' 

Her fingernails clicked on the glass as she began to take a mental inventory of the coins she had hidden in her luggage in her bedroom. She might be able to afford passage to France. It would be a tight several months upon landing, but she could make it. 

'She had the same... leaning, you see, Miss.' 

'I ain't stolen anything,' she said quickly, interrupting. 

Bessie frowned. 'What? I didn't- no. No, see, our family never approved. My husband doesn't, either. It's why she went out on her own, seeing her persuasion. But I stayed in contact with her. Met her for dinner, in private-like. We have five kids, my husband and I. All sons, except the middle. And Ella, she'd help out, when she could. Some coin here, sneak us some bread when she could. I never asked for it, but she did it. Wanted my kids to know her auntie still loved them, even if- ' 

'I don't know where she is,' Jenny interrupted again, a lump in her throat, tight and heavy and thick. Her heart had began to rattle in her chest, her own parents and siblings flooding her mind's eye. 

'Look, I've got a tuppence. If you've seen her- ' 

Reaching into her purse, Bessie pulled out the coin for Jenny to see. Shaking her head, she held up a hand, refusing to take it as it was presented before her. 

'She ain't here,' she insisted. 'She left. If she comes back, I'll tell her you stopped by. But I ain't seen her in weeks, and I don't think she's coming back.' 

'Can I come in, at least to speak to your Mistress?' 

Clenching her jaw, Jenny stepped out of the garden, the heel of her boot hitting the pavement hard to shake off the soil. A clod of dirt broke apart and, in its wake, Jenny swore she saw spiders skittering away. 

'I don't think that's a good idea. My prayers for you, ma'am, but you best be looking elsewhere.' 

Turning her back on Bessie, Jenny went to enter Paternoster Row. High above, in one of the uppermost windows, there was a rippling of curtains as someone drew them closed. 

* 

Jenny began to track the footsteps. She'd force herself to stay awake, hours into the night, as her candle burned low until her room was cast in a deep yellow glow. 

The footsteps didn't start at the same time each night. Sometimes Jenny would hear them shortly after she had crawled into bed, her book open on her lap, while other nights she would waken to them when the moon was high and the street outside quiet. 

The footsteps always started in the north-west corner and moved south-east. Therefore, Jenny hypothesised to herself, the occupant up above must enter from that corner and exit through a doorway on the other side. There just happened to be one simple problem with that guess: her bedroom was at the corner of the house. There was no entrance through which the owner of the feet up above could start from. 

'Unless,' Jenny murmured to herself as the nightly steps started. 'They're coming from outside.' 

The footsteps had already passed the boundaries of her bedroom walls. Throwing a dark robe over her white nightgown, Jenny hurriedly tied the fabric belt around her middle and rushed to follow. Her candle, already burned out, was left behind on her bedside table. 

The ceiling in her room must have been worn and in a state of disrepair, as the footsteps were muffled in the corridor. She strained to hear them, standing in silence and internally cursing the mere sound of her heartbeat. 

From the end of the hallway, she heard a telltale creak from up above. Hurrying to chase it, her bare feet padding on the carpet. Her nightgown swam around her ankles, a sea of cream and white lace. 

She had to run to catch up, the path being taken above her not following the same straight line as the corridor. Several rooms that the footsteps walked above led nowhere, and she had to turn and run out in an effort to catch up. The corridor had corners that didn't align with the stranger above her. Thanks to the darkness surrounding her, with only the moon outside providing any illumination, Jenny's shoulders, elbows and toes were bumped and knocked by walls and door frames alike. 

She reached the opposite end of the house, bruised and breathless. There was a doorway, leading the servants stairwell. With the scarcity of occupants within the household, it was rarely used. While Jenny still preferred to use the unseen passageways out of habit, she knew the rest of the staff (what little there were) tended towards the main staircases. This stairwell, though, was one Jenny hadn't ever used. 

The handle was stiff. She forced it down, listening to it strain against her hand. The door opened with a billow of stale air, tinged with mildew. It was cold inside, the stone steps sending a chill right to the bone. 

There was no light within, and what little filtered into the corridor didn't offer any help. 

Holding onto the door frame, Jenny turned her head up. She may not have used these stairs, but she could imagine what they looked like The uninvited visitor must have come from up there. 

She was being watched. She could feel it, the eyes open her burrowing down like the chill in her bones. Somewhere in the dark, she was being watched by an unseen, unknown, unwanted visitor that had likely stolen in from the very roof itself. 

Now would be the time for her to turn tail and hurry back to bed. 

From a floor below, there was a noise. It wasn't loud, and reminded her of her skirts dragging on the ground while she was cleaning. Just a whisper of noise, and something that would get lost if there were anything else to be heard. But, in the silence surrounding her, it immediately drew her attention. 

With nary a thought to her own safety, Jenny set off. 

She groped blindly in the dark and found the well. Her bare feet curled around the first steps as she started down, hiking up her nightgown and robe to prevent tripping. Years of servitude had prepared her for this. 

Down she went, bare toes curling around the cold steps. The back of her skirt and robe dragged behind her, both far longer than her typical uniform. Her hand trailed on the wall, helping guide her way as she reached the floor below. 

She was sure what she had been expecting. A body (living or dead), spiders, the boots of the nighttime visitor. 

It was none of that, except for a slightly open door. 

Blind in the dark, Jenny wrapped her hand around the side of the door and eased herself towards it. Beneath her, she felt the coarseness of the dust that littered Paternoster Row; she'd never known dust to feel like that, but she had also never known a grandfather clock to be so continuously infested with spiders, nor a house so large to operate on such few staff. 

She stepped through the door. There was a tickle over her feet, and her mind immediately turned to the spiders. None had yet to bite her. If anything, they seemed to recognise her, and would walk towards the glass jars with little coercion. 

Moving as quietly as she could manage, Jenny tried to peer about. Madame Musca didn't approve of oil lamps, for reasons unknown to her, and she had yet to find any of the candles to be regularly lit at night. Though, she supposed, that made sense, given the few people living in the house. Most windows were also heavily curtained at night, and the gas lamps outside didn't illuminate any of the floors. She wouldn't be surprised to hear that Madame Musca criticised the burgeoning electricity business, though she hadn't heard an utterance to that effect. 

It was less cold on this floor. Creeping forward, she looked about; there was a glow like fire under one of the doors. She approached carefully, straining to hear anything. Footsteps, a rustle of fabric, the sound of breathing that wasn't her own. None came. 

She didn't have a choice as to whether she was prepared to open the door or not. As she approached it, it blew open of its own accord, revealing a crackling fireplace inside. Heat wafted from it, reaching Jenny even as she stood outside the room. It was a welcome change from the chilling cold of the stairwell. 

Transfixed by the lively flames, she was drawn towards it. Her hands pulled the robe tighter around her as she took several steps. It had been so long since she had sat in front of warm fire, and with winter looming over the horizon, the nights had begun to grow frigid. The fire called to her, reeling her in ever closer. 

'You're the new girl, aren't you?' 

Startled, Jenny took a number of stumbling steps as she tore her gaze away from the fire. Lights dazzled her eyelids, the flame burned into her vision. Blinking to clear her sight, she looked about. To the side of the fire, dressed in layers of black and with a veil of her face, was a figure Jenny could only imagine was Madame Musca. 

'Pardon me, ma'am,' Jenny said hurriedly, giving a small bob of courtesy. 'I was searching for- ' 

'You're new.' 

Freezing in place, Jenny eyed the doorway through which she had entered. Now was the time she really wanted to listen to the voice that told her to flee, to run back to the comfort of her quarters, lock the door behind her and hide in her bed with the comforter pulled up to her nose. 

She couldn't. 

Her feet felt stuck in place. She was stuck in place, partly caught by the warmth of the fire, but also transfixed by Madame Musca. She couldn't see her mistresses eyes due to the opaque veil, but she could feel them. It wasn't quite like the sensation she had experienced in the servant's stairwell, but similar. 

'I've been here for some weeks, ma'am,' Jenny tried to explain. 'But out of all the staff... yes, I suppose I am.' 

What little staff remained, though. 

'And are you happy in your position?' 

Jenny had never liked that question. She worked to support herself. To earn money to afford food, clothing, a roof over her head. She constantly believed she would be capable of more, if only she were given the opportunity to prove it, both to herself and others. 

She'd never readily admit it, though. 

'Mrs Beryl treats me kindly, ma'am. And I've never had sleeping arrangements as pleasant as the set up I have here.' 

'It gladdens me, to know you are satisfied.' 

Madame Musca had a lisp. Her voice, raspy and thin, wasn't unusual for many of the older people Jenny had served over the years. The lisp, though, was unusual. It punctuated much of her speech, with a strange, almost wet sound. Having grown up in a group of all manner of human peculiarities had led Jenny to meeting a variety of people, some of whom had a lisp either from a congenital malformation (like the child who never grew in their adult teeth) or had been acquired later in life (such as the man who had willingly forked his tongue). But never had she heard a lisp quite like this one, where the words slushed together in that manner. 

'Thank you, ma'am. I best be off, ma'am.' 

'Wait- Jenny, isn't it?' 

'Yes, ma'am?' 

She had already pivoted to leave. Although it didn't appear as though Madam Musca had moved, she couldn't help but feel the woman was staring deep into her soul. It was, in the mildest sense, utterly unsettling. 

'Do you have any family?' 

Something had begun to tickle her foot. It was possibly only a loose thread from her nightgown or robe. 

'I beg your pardon, ma'am?' 

'Do you have children? I had many, but they've all left me now.' 

The tickling continued. 

Sliding her eyes down, Jenny watched as a long, spindly spider crept across her foot. It's legs slipped between two of her toes as it made its journey across. 

Another had begun to crawl towards her. It was larger, covered in a thick fur. It looked not unlike the spider she had released into the garden the day she met Bessie. 

As she looked at the two spiders by her feet, she released the floor was covered in a thick layer of dust. The crackling fire had hidden it from an initial cursory view, but the black spiders contrasted against the red and grey hues. The hem of her gown was stained with it, soiled into a filthy mess. 

'Yes, ma'am. I have a sister and a brother,' she finally replied. 'And two parents, both thankfully still alive by God's great blessing.' 

'Are you close?' 

'As close as any other. We attend church together every Sunday.' 

'But no husband?' 

Jenny forced a smile upon her face and hoped it didn't come across as a grimace. 'It's funny you should ask, ma'am. My sister has plans to set me up with a young man. A baker, apparently, from where the household she works at buys its bread. He sounds most handsome, with... with a strong beard.' 

That sounded convincing enough. She hoped upon hope it did. 

'You must excuse me, ma'am. I must be up early. With Cooky gone on Sabbatical, I must go to the market early to fetch eggs so I can prepare breakfast. I hope you have a comforting evening.' 

She gave a shaky curtsy before she left, taking a wide step to avoid the spider that had been lurking by her foot. 

The dust clung to her feet as she hurried down the corridor. There was an uneasy, lurking feeling that she was being followed, if only by sight. 

Her feet hurried her along as she chose a path that led her to the secondary servant's stairwell, which differed to the one she had entered through. As she neared it, she felt another tickle on her ankle. Hitching up her skirt, she saw one of the spiders, clinging onto her. 

Reaching down, she scooped it up. Its thin legs tapped along her palm and fingers as she deposited it on a nearby wall, which it began to climb up. 

'Meet me at the clock tomorrow, and I'll let you free,' she said, mostly to reassure herself that morning would come. 

Tonight, though, she'd be locking her bedroom door and barely sleeping a wink. 

* 

She awoke to spiders. 

Hundreds of them littered her bedroom floor. 

Sitting upright, Jenny studied her room at the arachnids that surrounded her. Black, brown, grey and white. Some had markings upon their backs, others were covered in fur. Some were as large as her hand while others were so small they could only be seen as they crawled over her window and caught the light. 

They didn't seem to be aggressive or threatened by her. Although they were crawling about, and some had even made their way up onto her bed, they had left a wide perimeter about her. Even so, they were alert to her presence, and Jenny felt immediately under their gaze as she eased the blanket off. 

Careful to not disturb the spiders that had perched upon the end of her bed, Jenny peeled her legs out from under the covers. Swinging them over the side of the bed, she watched as the spiders scrambled to get out of her way as her right foot was placed down first, and then the left. 

She stood, easing herself up. The spiders poised, waiting for her. Then, as though she were a Biblical figure from the Old Testament, they parted as she walked towards her closet. 

For lack of any idea about what else to do, she began to dress. Stockings and boots, her shift and dress. A corset and, over it, thick woollen petticoats to keep the whisper of winter chill at bay. It was mildly intimidating, getting dressed in front of so many witnesses, but the spiders stayed a good foot away from her and raced off as she shook out her dress. 

Pinning her hair back, she looked about at the spiders. They were poised, as though waiting for her. She could only wonder where they had come from. It was as though all the spiders on the street had come into her bedroom overnight, crawling in from under the door, through the vent and via the cracks in the wall. 

As the last pin slid into place, Jenny took a breath. She collected her purse and, after ensuring her coins were safe within, she slipped it into her pocket. She'd go downstairs, collect her basket, and head out as though she were leaving for the marketplace. Maybe she'd even do that. Take the coins that were set out for the morning bread and eggs, buy them, and then make her leave. She'd stay at a boarding house until she could earn passage elsewhere. Her family had spread enough stories of her stealing ways. Maybe it was time to lower her morals and do just that. 

Making her way to the door, the spiders began to move, as though suddenly agitated. Broken from her thoughtful reverie, Jenny watched as the spiders began to line up in front of the door. They crawled over each other, as though frantic to block her way. A noise had begun to emit from them, a strange rustling and hissing sound as she approached them. 

'I need to go.' 

The rustling grew louder. The spiders shook as they piled on top of one another, their legs gripping at one another as their fangs shook and clicked at her. 

'I have to go. Move.' 

The spiders rustled again, the largest splaying themselves upon the back of her door as though their sheer size would convince her to stay. 

With a heavy sigh, and a wonder that she was speaking to a mass of arachnids, Jenny lowered her voice to a whisper. 

'I'm _leaving_. I shan't be back.' 

At first the spiders were still. Then, as though accepting her answer, they moved slowly. Free to open the door without harming any of them, she took her time unlocking it and cracking it open. 

A massive spider web covered the doorway. It stretched across the entire space, a thick entanglement the likes of which she had never seen, not even in the most forgotten corners. She took it in, gaping at it. The threads that had been attached to the door swayed with her breath, dangling helplessly before drifting to the ground. 

Turning back to her bed, she tiptoed through the crawling mass and grabbed her blanket. Apologising to the creatures around her, she ran the blanket through the web, peeling it off so she could leave. 

She reached the bottom when she spotted the dust on the ground. It was thick, far thicker than she had ever seen. The ground was coated in it, a small desert in the corridor outside her bedroom. Like a blanket of sand, Jenny scratched her head. 

And there, on the ground, leading up to her door, were footsteps. Beside them were long scratches in the dust, as though something had been dragged along. 

The web. The spiders. 

Jenny was infinitely grateful she hadn't been there to greet whoever- or whatever- had try to pay her a visit in the dead of night. 

* 

She did her best to leave. She was able to arrive downstairs, using her preferred staircase. She made it to the kitchen, found the shillings left on the counter by Mrs Beryl to take to the marketplace for their morning purchases, and had even taken her cloak out of the servant's cupboard so she could protect herself from the snow. 

It was as, she was stopped the moment she began to leave the kitchen. 

Someone was calling to her. It took Jenny a moment to realise just where the voice was coming from, before she looked at the dumbwaiter. 

She should leave. She _knew_ she should leave. But she stared at the dumbwaiter, one hand clutching her cloak, the other her purse. There was a door that opened from the kitchen into the courtyard, and she could walk right through and to freedom. 

From somewhere in the kitchen, spiders began to emerge. They crawled over the floor, up the cupboards, over pots and cups and cutlery to reach the dumbwaiter. Their legs stretched out as they began to enter it and began to scramble up, disappearing from Jenny's view as they hurried to wherever it terminated. 

Yet Jenny turned, and even as she cursed herself for doing so, she started to leave the kitchen. 

Books. She couldn't leave without her books. 

Up one floor, then the next, where she began to walk through the house. Past the dining room, the study (long disused), the billiard room. 

The dust had coated the floor, wherever she went. She'd only scrubbed the tiles the day before, but it looked like it hadn't been touched in weeks. So, too, the walls were covered in spiderwebs. Every nook and cranny was covered in whispery white strands, though only a collection of squirming insects had been captured. As she looked about, she spotted a few spiders squirming into cracks near the corners. 

The grandfather clock chimed. 

She hadn't even realised she was that close to it. 

The loud, mildly discordant crash of noises had Jenny dropping her cloak. Her purse, still clutched in her other hand, was slipped into her pocket once more. 

She was in the doorway of the sitting room. The grandfather clock echoed throughout the room as the clock chimed. Turning to face it, she froze. 

The clock wasn't what caused her to still but, rather, the large object stretched in front of it. It was long and somewhat off-white, with a rough texture to it that reminded Jenny a little like rice. Taking a few steps towards it, the pungent smell that radiated off it reached her. Gagging a little, shocked by the over-ripe stench, she cupped a hand over her mouth. 

The spiders surrounded it, but didn't seem to dare go near it. Unlike how they had treated her when she awoke, with a strange, almost courteous, distance, they seemed more wary of the object in the room. 

'Jenny? There you are, dear girl. I've been calling and calling for you.' 

With a hand over her mouth, Jenny whirled around. Madame Musca was standing behind her, much closer than she had expected. Much like she had been dressed the night before, she wore her large, voluminous black dress. The veil covered her face, with lace reaching to her waist. The cloak she wore was pulled tightly across her front, and as she shuffled closer, the fabric began to ripple. 

'Go back to your room, ma'am. I'll have Mrs Beryl assist you while I clean this up.' 

'I'm ever so hungry. I haven't had breakfast.' 

'I won't be a moment, ma'am. Please, just- ' 

As Madame Musca shuffled closer, Jenny began to step away. Some of the spiders had began to scamper towards her, moving fast on their thin legs, while others began to arch up towards Madame Musca. 

The smell grew thicker, richer, as she neared the strange object. 

'I'll go fetch Mrs Beryl- ' 

Mrs Beryl. 

She hadn't seen her all morning. That wasn't entirely strange, given Jenny was one of the first to rise. But she hadn't seen her most of the previous day, either. 

'Oh, be a dear. Why don't you go do that now?' 

Madame Musca's slippery, wet lisp sent a chill down Jenny's spine. Gritting her teeth, she tried her best to not visibly shudder. 

She was near the object now. It was difficult to breathe through the smell, and nothing quite like what Jenny had experienced. Except, perhaps, just once, when she was a child and her family had set up camp for their carnival one summer. A cat had gone unnoticed and had died near one of the tents. Jenny had been the one to find it. It had been a horribly, sickeningly sweet and sour smell that she was sure she'd never get out of her nose. It had coated the back of her throat, and she'd been quite turned off her food for some time afterwards. 

And flies. There had been flies everywhere. Her family had closed the carnival early as the flies had swarmed and been impossible to ignore. Jenny had wished they had something to get rid of them. 

Like spiders. 

One of the spiders began to drop from the ceiling by its web. Without warning, it dropped and fell, right towards Madame Musca. 

Quick as anything, Madame Musca threw off her cloak. Something long and black reached out and swatted the spider away. The action threw the veil off her head, where it clashed with a pocket of spiders, covering them in lace. 

Jenny had no idea what she was looking at. 

A head, yes. Eyes, most definitely. Two of them, a horrible red, and compounded into dozens upon dozens of tiny segments, which took up most of Madame Musca's furry, black face. And right where her mouth and nose ought to be, descended a long, thick proboscis, which was framed by a pair of sharp mouthparts. 

It was impossible to take in. It couldn't be real. A creature like this couldn't possibly exist, and yet it was, right there in front of her. Madame Musca's mouthparts clicked together, a horribly chittering noise that was followed by a wet, slurping noise as her proboscis waved in the air as it sniffed her out. 

Stumbling backwards, Jenny's boot hit the object behind her. She took several steps, arms waving wildly as she attempted to balance herself. Her feet tripped about, and though she managed to stay upright, the outer layer of the shell she had almost fallen over began to crack open. 

Piece by piece, bit by bit, the crisp, albeit paper-thin, shell began to shed away. A line formed up the middle of it, splitting it clean in two. Jenny hadn't been watching, as she'd been more in favour of making her way to the opposite side of the room where she just might be able to throw one of the thick, heavy curtains aside to allow her escape through a shuttered window. Her attention, though, was quickly diverted when Madame Musca let out a horrifying, ear piercing screech as the shell fell apart and the dank, overpowering stench came flooding out. Along with it was a massive waft of dust. Grey, black and red. It poured from the husk, almost spilling into Jenny's boots as she tried to remain on her feet. 

'You ungrateful little _beast_!' 

Panicking, Jenny leapt backwards. Madame Musca snarled at her as Jenny scrambled to put distance between them. She managed to catch a glance inside the casing, though she knew what- or, rather, _who_ \- was in there. 

Mrs Beryl. Her remains, dried and wasted away, had been preserved, and Jenny had a suspicion as to why. 

'You've killed them. My babies, my precious babies, you've _destroyed_ them with your clumsiness!' 

Quietly, Jenny thought that was for the best. She would rather an empty shell in which Mrs Beryl lay, than anything to do with maggots. 

Madame Musca lunged for her. Her arms stretched out in front of her, a second pair having emerged from somewhere at her torso. All four arms were covered in the same dust that had spilled from the husk that contained Mrs Beryl’s remains. With a yelp of fear, Jenny turned and ran, looking for something to defend herself with. The spiders about her pounced towards the horribly creature behind her, though Jenny paid them no mind. 

She could feel the hands in her hair and on her dress. She had to find something fast, but the only thing close to her was the grandfather clock. 

'You'll be the new home in which I lay- ' 

Whatever she was about to be said was cut off as Jenny swung the glass door of the grandfather clock into Madame Musca. It connected with enough force that Madame Musca was knocked back just long enough that Jenny could reach inside the clock and pull out the large and dust-riddled sword inside. A number of spiders clung to it and raced up her arm to balance upon her shoulders as she hauled it out. 

It was heavier than she expected. She hadn't thought it would have such a heft to it. Forcing it up, she wrapped both hands about it and pointed the blade at Madame Musca. As she looked it over, Madame Musca gave a squelching noise that was possibly a laugh. A cloud of dust emerged from the end of her proboscis as her mouthparts chittered together. 

'You think you can do me harm with that, girl? It's an ancient Tritovorian relic. You haven't the strength.' 

'I don't know what that is, but it ain't any heavier than a mop an' bucket.' 

Madame Musca lunged, but Jenny was prepared. Or, more accurately, as prepared as a woman whose closest similar experience to this was moving scalding pans from one burner to the next on a stove. 

She swung a little wildly, yet the flat of the blade still connected somewhere in the middle. The muscles in her arms were already burning, but Jenny maintained her grip as she swung the sword a second time. As Madame Musca went to deflect the blow, Jenny kicked at her, hoping at the very least to get her off her balance. 

'Excuse me. I may be of assistance.' 

Wide-eyed, Jenny turned. Another figure, also in black, also in a similar veil, swimming in miles of expensive, lacy fabric. 

'Not another one!' 

'No, definitely not.' 

From somewhere within, the stranger pulled out a pair of swords. They were shorter than the one Jenny had hauled out, and she (for Jenny guessed it was a _she_ , given the dress) wielded them deftly. It would have been enviable, if Jenny weren't already fighting for her life. 

'Where did you come from?' she asked, because although her mind was focused on slashing at the beast in front of her, her curiousity was insatiable. 

'The roof. You've heard me, at night.' 

'Oh, great. A giant fly _and_ a thief.' 

'You're one to talk. I've heard the stories about you in the marketplace.' 

'They're not _true_!' 

With a loud shout of frustration, Jenny sliced the sword through the air. Madame Musca held out an arm to stop her, but the sword cleaved it clean off. As though time were slowing down, Jenny watched as the arm fell to the ground, where it thumped to land among the spiders. The arachnids pounced on it, piling on top of one another, building themselves up to fling at the open wound. 

Something green oozed from the injury, not quite blood but akin to it. Despite the tremble in Jenny's arms and the skilled manner in which her new fighting companion thrust a sword into Madame Musca's side, she wouldn't give up. Not yet, not when she still had to get out. 

She kicked again. Her arms were burning, her entire body aching to stop. Her boots connected with legs underneath Madame Musca's gown, but she remained standing. The woman beside her spun around, and Jenny watched as she moved behind her and elbowed her in the back. She slashed with one of the swords she held, and must have torn fabric as from her back emerged two slippery gossamer-like wings. They beat in the air, but appeared too flimsy to lift Madame Musca into the air. 

On the ground, the spiders had begun to weave a web between her legs, their silken thread joining together a thick, strong band of rope. Kicking again, aiming higher, Jenny punctuated it with a thrust of the sword against Madame Musca's shoulder. The wings trembled and smacked towards her, to which Jenny heaved the sword about, slicing at one of them so it split clean off. 

As the woman who had joined in the fight whirled around, her veil was flung clean off. Jenny looked up to see that instead of long, flowing hair that was so commonplace, she instead saw only green skin. No, not skin- _scales_. At first she thought they must be tattoos, done with a vibrancy and delicacy the likes of which she had never been seen. But as she moved, avoiding the remaining arms and the gnashing mouthparts, Jenny realised that they had to be completely natural. The woman before her had a remarkable, amazing green that she must have been born with. 

It had distracted her long enough that she had lowered her sword. Madame Musca, noticing this, took advantage. From her proboscis, she spat out a vile-smelling fluid. It landed clean on Jenny's chest, it's stench acrid and burning to her nostrils. It wasn't unlike the interior of the shell, if without the smell of death (and heavens above, she'd never wish _that_ upon her superiors again). It was as crimson as the fluid that had soaked the earth outside. 

The spiders began to climb up Madame Musca's skirt. They skittered about, their legs gripping at the fabric, their fangs seeking something to sink into. A screech spilled from her as Jenny hit her with the flat of the blade and sent her down onto the ground, in a flurry of black fabric. Taking their chance, the spiders bounded on top of her. Their webs began to cover Madame Musca, sticking her to the ground where she howled and hissed at them. The rustling of the spiders grew as they began to give her proboscis and mouthparts, narrowly avoiding being bitten, before her yowling became muffled and she was hidden under the shell. 

Panting hard, Jenny wasn't sure where to look: the husk that encased Mrs Beryl, or the bundle of webs that housed her former employer. 

Her arm throbbed. She'd be feeling it for days, she could tell that much. The smell would linger in her nose for about as long; perhaps she'd be able to find some smelling salts about the place. 

'You. Girl. You _are_ the kitchen maid, aren't you?' 

Jenny took a moment to catch her breath. Her fingers still wrapped tightly around the handle of the sword, but she was no longer sure if she could bear to lift its weight. She nodded at the question as the blade dipped down towards the ground and wiped the sweat off her upper lip. 

'Aye.' 

'Jenny, isn't it?' 

'Yes, ma'am. Jenny Scarrity.' 

She was still struggling to take in the woman before her. In her youth, she had witnessed many people pass through her parents carnival. Bearded women, men covered in thick, sometimes self-inflicted scars. People twice her weight and thrice as heavy. And though she had once worked with a young girl whose skin had been covered in patchy scales and needed assistance bathing and dressing, she had never once seen someone with skin as green as the woman who now stood before her. And, unlike the girl Jenny had been tasked with helping, she didn't seem to be in any pain due to her condition. 

Her eyes, a pale blue, held Jenny in place. She hadn't noticed her eyes before. She'd been too busy trying to survive. 

'Are you the same Jenny Scarrity I've heard rumours about in the marketplace? 

Swallowing hard, Jenny lifted her chin. She knew the rumours would catch up with her. She'd deflected the question at first, but she hadn't been held under such an inquisitive stare at the time. 

'Most likely,' she said, trying to sound offhand. 

'Are they true?' 

'I assure you, any story involving fault of my moral character is completely and utterly false, ma'am.' 

The woman before her smiled. A green complexion or not, her smile appeared human. Though it didn't calm Jenny any, she did take some reassurance that whatever affliction she suffered didn't extend to her emotions. 

'And the other rumours?' 

Jenny took a deep breath and let her eyes fall. 'Those would be true, if they're the rumours I suspect you infer.' 

A small hum of consideration was the only response to that. The woman nodded and turned, taking several deliberate steps away from Jenny and to the fallen form of Madame Mason. Jenny remained still, gripping the sword with the blade resting upon the ground. 

Whatever good fortune she had found at Paternoster Row now felt stale. She had had a bed in which to sleep, a roof of her head and a momentary reprieve from the stark possibility of boarding a ship to the colonies. She may have been under threat for her life, but she had still lived in a blissful ignorance for a period. 

'What will you do now?' the woman asked. 

'I'll figure something out. I always land on my feet.' 

'Yes.' There was a small laugh in her voice. 'I suspect you do.' 

'And you? What will you do?' 

A pause lingered. The woman crouched down beside Madame Mason's fallen body and, from somewhere within her billowing skirts, pulled out a vial. Jenny watched from the corner of her eye as she delicately moved some of the spiders aside and peeled back a small portion of the webbing. There seemed to be movement from inside, but it was likely the spiders, sedating her before they took their fill. 

The woman lowered the vial and began to extract what appeared to be dark blood. It filled the vial, inch by inch, thick and rich and as green as what had oozed from the open wound before. 

'You're not like her, are you?' Jenny asked, whipping around to face her. She stepped forward, her feet pulling her along against her will. 'You don't- you don't _eat_ people, do you?' 

The woman looked up. Her bonnet tipped back a little, revealing no hair but further scales that appeared to form crest-like protrusions from her brow. Those pale eyes met her own once more, leaving Jenny to draw in a sharp breath. 

'I do.' 

'Well... you're not eating _me_ , that's for sure.' 

Cocking her head to the side, the woman stood, towering over Jenny. 'Why's that?' 

'Because I forbid it. I helped save your life- ' 

'You did no such thing, I was quite capable of fending her off on my own, but thank you.' 

'- and as long as I have my wits and facilities about me, I refuse to become a meal for some... some...' 

The woman leaned forward a little, her eyes widening as she nodded, encouraging her on. 

'Some... would-be penny dreadful knock-off who lives in peoples crawlspaces.' 

'I'll have you know I'm no such thing. The very queen herself bestowed upon me the title of Madame. My accommodation is a little wanting, I admit, but I have never once lived in a crawlspace.' 

'Madame?' 

'Vastra. Madame Vastra.' 

'Well, _Madame_ , I don't approve of being eaten, thank you very much.' 

Watching Madame Vastra cautiously ( _great_ , another woman with a title), Jenny rubbed her bicep. She could feel it twitching, the muscle contracting underneath her hand. She'd yet to go nose blind, and the smell radiating about the room continued to bother her. Maybe people weren't ever meant to ignore the stench of death. 

'Are you some sort of scientist?' she asked. 

Vastra had begun to move towards Mrs Beryl's body. Unable to bring herself to look at her remains, Jenny trained her eyes instead on Vastra. 

'Excuse me?' 

'I asked if you were some kind of scientist.' 

'Oh. No,' Vastra said with a chuckle. She crouched in front of Mrs Beryl and, after looking her over, carefully folded part of the shell over her to give her some dignity. 

'Then what are you? You aren't a thief, apparently.' 

'And neither are you.' 

Some of the spiders continued to circle Jenny. They looked up at her, their front legs waving about. With a shivering breath, she turned and began to walk out of the room, trying to leave the smell behind her. As much as she wished to pay her last respects to Mrs Beryl, despite not knowing her at all well, she couldn't handle the putrid stench. 

She headed down the corridor, the dust growing sparse as she put some space between her and the room. Behind her, spiders trailed, racing about as she opened the front door. Down she went, one step, then two, where she sat upon the stoop. 

She still carried the sword. Staring at her, she gave her a loud breath and attempted to toss it aside. It landed barely a foot away and crashed on the stone work. 

Taking a breath, she pressed her hands to her face and listened to the sounds of the morning. It was barely daybreak, and only the lowest of maids were about. 

'I investigate mysteries.' Vastra was behind her. She'd followed her out. 'I hear about goings-on and I investigate. Sometimes I'm hired by others, sometimes I find them out on my own.' 

Looking over her shoulder, Jenny watched as Vastra swept her dress underneath her and sat down on the stoop next to her. Her veil, attached to an ornate hat, sat on her lap. 

Her own dress, by comparison, was covered in dirt and spit. A little embarrassed by the ruined hem of her skirt, Jenny tried to wipe the dust away, and only succeeded in ruining it further. 

'By breaking into peoples houses?' 

'The ends occasionally justify the means.' 

Growing quiet, Jenny rubbed her arm again. At least, she supposed, she wouldn't have to lift any heavy pots or pans over the next few days. 

'You are a bit like a scientist, then.' 

'How do you mean?' 

'Guessing things. Looking for an answer. That's what scientists do.' 

Vastra smiled. Her teeth were a dazzling white, and Jenny eyed them, her tongue running over her own. She had a kind smile, despite her appearance. It seemed that those with the toughest exterior were often the kindest. 

'And what will you do, Miss Scarrity?' 

'You asked that before.' 

With a deep, crestfallen sigh, she leaned forward and pressed her brow to her knees. She still smelt of Madame Musca. The spit had dried into her dress, and the longer she bent over, the more it burned her nose. With a grunt, she lifted her head up and wiped a hand over her face. 

Despite what had occurred in Paternoster Row, it had also been one of the best experiences. She certainly hadn't been safe, but there hadn't been an immediate threat to her life until the most recent days. That was, at the very least, a change from living in London typically. 

Finally she shrugged and gestured vaguely about. 

'If you may excuse my prior eavesdropping,' Vastra said slowly, 'but I believe Mrs Callaghan's husband had died a few years prior.' 

Jenny frowned. 'Mrs Beryl, you mean?' 

Vastra nodded. 'And the cook, she had fallen out of contact with her own family.' 

'No. She hadn't,' Jenny sighed, continuing to wipe at her nose. 'She only told folks that. She still spoke to her sister. I saw her only a few weeks ago.' 

Vastra pursed her lips. 'I overheard you saying you were still in contact with your family. I believe that's why she kept you for last.' 

'A lie,' Jenny laughed. 'I haven't seen 'em for months, on account of my...' 

She shrugged and waved her hand again. 

A cold and abrupt wind blew through the street. Cursing under her breath, Jenny wrapped her arms around herself. There was a frost in the air. It would begin to snow soon. She'd need to find a boarding house shortly, plus work. 

Beside her, Vastra opened up her cloak and, after meeting Jenny's eyes, nodded for her to scoot closer. 

Though she considered declining, if only for propriety's sake, there was no voice in her head telling her to stop. With a smile of thanks, Jenny scooted across beside her. Vastra wrapped the cloak partly over her shoulders and pressed lightly against her. Jenny had been expecting warmth, but she was quietly stunned to find the woman cold as she leant in. Confused, she looked up. 

'I'm a lizard, Miss Scarrity. I'm from a cold-blooded race.' 

'Paternoster Row has a number of fireplaces. I know where they stack the wood.' 

They both took in the house behind them. It would have to be cleaned out. It would take days, if not weeks, to clear out the dust and smell. Jenny would also want to ensure the roof had been fixed, to prevent any other unwelcome nighttime guests from coming in. 

The spiders, at least, would prevent flies. That was something to be grateful for. 


End file.
